Designated Fat Girl (21 page)

I talked it over with Michael, and he did his best to reassure me. There was a risk in almost everything, he pointed out, and there was certainly a risk in being more than three hundred pounds, with a family history of heart disease a mile long. He told me I would be okay, that he would be there every step of the way, and of course, I believed him. I prayed about my fears, and then I set them aside, determined to stick with the decision I had finally made for myself.

I had to be at the hospital at 5:30 a.m. on March18. Surprisingly, I slept soundly the night before, all my nerves seemed
to vanish. I woke up and dressed quickly, putting on no makeup and wearing no jewelry. I looked in the mirror, my face full of freckles undisguised by foundation and powder staring back at me, and I thought about Scott and the pool. I wasn’t ugly as hell—I truly believed that now. But I was about to start on a path to be a whole lot prettier, and that made me smile.

I had Michael take a picture of me before we left for the hospital. I’m standing in the kitchen, in all my 336-pound glory. The first day of the rest of my life.

I finally believed that all the signs were pointing me to surgery. But perhaps what happened when I checked in at the hospital should have clued me in to how things were going to go.

I suppose on any given day there are surgeries scheduled for scores of people at any hospital. I was the first to check in that Tuesday morning for surgery, but there were lots of people behind me—some old, a couple of kids, some men, some women. Lots of people having a variety of procedures performed. Michael was told to wait in the surgical waiting room for me to be prepped, and then right before I went in, he would get to see me. The nurses said it would only take about twenty minutes or so.

I was assigned cot number one in the surgical triage area. Everyone is given their own nurse, and as lucky patient number one, I was assigned to Nurse Bob. I can’t know for certain, but I’m pretty sure this was Bob’s first day on the job. Or close to it. Everything he said, everything he did, was wrong, starting with the gown he gave me to change into. Imagine my horror as the front desk nurse overlooking the triage area called Bob over to tell him that I needed the special gowns that were in
the second warmer oven. Bob looked perplexed, and so did I, until I figured it out: I needed a larger gown. Nothing like one last fat humiliation for the road! I tried not to let it bother me as Bob closed the curtain around my cot so that I could change. He also instructed me to put on a set of support hose—think: really thick knee highs. Apparently these were used to prevent blood clots. I changed out of my clothes and into the gown with no problem. But the little cot did not provide enough support for my big body as I struggled to put on the stockings. I tried standing and holding on to the cot for support, but it was too flimsy—it moved under my weight. I finally had to climb up on the cot and struggle to reach over my huge belly to put on the hose. I tried to keep my grunting and groaning to a minimum, as there were no sound barriers; everyone else preparing for surgery was on the other side of the curtain. Bob had to ask me two or three times if I was okay, and I tried to keep my tone light in answer, not wanting everyone to know my plight. I finally got them on and wiped the sweat from my brow. I was breathing heavy from the struggle, and Bob asked if I was okay. I already wanted to kill Nurse Bob.

The mayhem continued. Bob could not get an IV started. He tried one arm. Then the other. Then the first arm again. He was about to make his fourth attempt when the head nurse suggested calling someone from the IV team. My happy-go-lucky attitude was slowly draining away. I was now anxious to get this surgery started, and I really wanted to see Michael. The IV team arrived, and they, too, had trouble. I never knew I had terrible veins; my C-sections had been problem free. A sign? I wasn’t sure, but it was too late now to change my mind. As the
IV team discussed my situation, my surgeon checked in with me, saying my blood sugar was high, but that it was okay for the surgery. That relieved me somewhat. He also assured me that they would in fact get an IV started, and they did. Now all I had to do was pee for a pregnancy test.
What?!
It’s true—they had to know before taking me into surgery that I was not pregnant. Only, I couldn’t make myself pee. I don’t know if I was dehydrated from not drinking soda the day before or just nervous, but I couldn’t go to the bathroom. So the nurse decided to give me fluid through my IV to make me pee. More waiting.

I’d now been there a full hour, and I was sure Michael was worried. All the other patients who’d come in behind me had already left for their surgeries; I was the only one there. I asked Bob if my husband could come back now, and he said, “Oh, I forgot! Yeah, he could have been back here long ago.” To say I wanted to strangle him would be an understatement; imagine how I felt when one of the other nurses came back, looked at the stockings on my legs, and said, “Why is she wearing these?” Bob looked confused, and I felt the heat start to rise to my face. “Her doctor stopped using these long ago. He uses the plastic braces that snap in place.”
What?!
I’d struggled to get the stupid things on, and now Bob was closing the curtain so that I could take them off. Shoot. Me. Now.

When the curtain reopened, I saw my whole surgical team standing there, waiting for me. I also finally saw my husband, who was just a little confused about what was going on. You should have seen his face when I told him we were waiting on a pregnancy test! Finally, I took the test, the negative results were revealed, and I kissed my husband good-bye. As they wheeled
my cot toward the operating room, and the sleepy drugs started to kick in, I felt such relief. It had been a crazy morning, and a pretty awful sixteen years. I was ready.

I woke up from surgery with unbelievable pain. My throat was severely dry, and my bottom hurt from lying on the hard bed for too long in one position. One of the nurses beside me was clearly training the other, and I had difficulty getting their attention, as my voice wouldn’t work properly. Finally I squeaked out that I was thirsty and in pain; they said they couldn’t give me anything yet and we were waiting for a room to come open. I was beyond miserable. My C-sections hadn’t been like this; I wasn’t put to sleep for those, and I had a spinal block that kept the pain away for hours. Plus, I had a pretty, pink newborn to look forward to. As I lay there, feeling hopeless and hurting, I wondered, not for the last time, what in the world I had done to myself.

In what seemed like an eternity, the nurse finally wheeled me out of recovery and toward my room, only to run into my mother and sister-in-law waiting in the hallway. I can just imagine what I looked like to them—in incredible pain, no makeup, postsurgery. What a mess! They smiled sweetly, and I suppose I mumbled a response. To be honest, it’s all a blur—a pain-riddled memory.

I was in the hospital for three days, and things slowly improved. Everyone told me how important it was to walk after surgery, but I did not want to get out of bed. I don’t know if it was a side effect of the anesthesia, or just a means of escape for me, but the less time conscious, the better. I did walk that first night after surgery, and it did make me feel a bit better. But
that next day, I couldn’t shake my bad feeling. I was wheeled down to radiology so that I could drink some liquid and they could watch it go into my stomach. This test was done to make sure there were no leaks in my new stomach pouch. I passed the test just fine, but the nausea I had to endure from all that movement left me not wanting to get out of bed for the rest of the day. I struggled to find something to make me feel better, and I realized that all of the ways I used to cope in the past were now off-limits. In the hospital after my C-sections, all I’d wanted was Mountain Dew. And my very clear memory of that post-baby time, especially when Eli was in the NICU and I was worried, was that the soda helped calm my nerves, helped settle me down. Only, I couldn’t have a soft drink during this troubled time. Whenever I’d battled nausea before, something I dealt with regularly in my second pregnancy, eating crackers or bread had always helped me to feel better. But I couldn’t do that now. It really dawned on me that I had no way to cope, nothing to use to help settle my nerves. And that realization was very unsettling.

Looking back, Michael says he knew something was wrong the day I was discharged. My surgical wounds were healing nicely, and all the tests showed I’d come through the surgery with flying colors. I was packed and dressed and all ready to leave my hospital room; only, I didn’t want to go. I said I was sleepy, and I proceeded to doze off in my bed. The nurse eventually had to come wake me, saying once I was officially discharged, I had to leave, unless I wasn’t feeling well—in which case they would have to call the doctor. I reluctantly got up and got into the wheelchair to leave the hospital. Who doesn’t want
to leave the hospital? At the time, I thought I was just tired, but soon I would have more evidence that all was not well.

When we got home, I was so happy to see the kids, but other than that, I was pretty down. Despite all my research about gastric bypasses, all the information I’d collected beforehand, I was ill-prepared for how I would feel afterward. And the best way to describe that feeling is
empty.
I hadn’t eaten anything in almost a week. I was supposed to be drinking protein shakes and water, but the nausea was debilitating and I couldn’t keep anything down. There was nothing to throw up, so I spent most of my time dry heaving, afraid I would bust out of my staples. I was nowhere near hungry, but something weird happens to you when your mind knows your body isn’t getting nourishment. I would sit and think about food all the time. I’d plan in my head what I would eat as soon as I was able to: meatballs, cheese, peanut butter. I was obsessed with thinking about food and felt very deprived that I couldn’t tolerate any. I also had a very hard time getting comfortable; the staples made it difficult to lie flat, so I slept every night in the recliner in the den. That, along with not eating, just made me feel … sick. And when you feel sick, you wonder if you’ll ever feel better. It wasn’t a happy time.

Ironically my house was filled with food. Whenever a mom has surgery, the community steps up to the plate. My mom friends, women at my church, and neighbors all brought tons of food for my family. We’re talking fried chicken, pasta, casseroles, plus tons of desserts. Just the smell made my stomach turn, but the thought was even worse: There was all that food and I couldn’t enjoy a morsel of it. I felt like an outcast. Of
course, logically, I knew this too would pass and I would find a new normal. But at that point it was hard to convince myself that I would ever feel normal again.

Ten days after the surgery, on a Friday, was the closest I got to getting back to my old self. My staples were out, and I had a good post-op appointment at the doctor’s office. I told them I’d had a hard time drinking the protein shakes, or eating anything on the liquid diet list, so they prescribed something for nausea. I was hopeful it would work. I even went out in the car, on my own, to fill the prescription and to buy some greeting cards. As I shopped, I looked at the people around me and realized: I’m doing normal stuff. I’m bathed. I’m dressed. I’m running errands. I should be able to eat something soon, once I take the nausea medicine. Things are good. I’m getting better. That night, I was very tired from my afternoon out, but I went to bed for the first time in our bedroom, out of the den recliner. It took a little bit to get comfortable, but I was hopeful, for the first time since I’d had the surgery, that things were looking up.

Cut to the next morning. I knew it before my eyes even opened for the day: Something was very, very wrong. Every muscle in my body ached, and I wasn’t even moving. Lying still in my bed, I slowly opened my eyes and sucked in air. I was in pain. Everything hurt. It was an allover body ache, and it was scary. Still, I tried to talk myself out of panicking. I knew I hadn’t been drinking my protein shakes or taking my vitamins as I should. I just figured my body was reacting to the lack of nourishment it had endured for the past several days. Vowing to do better that day, I made my way out of bed and into the den, where Michael and the kids were already up.

I convinced Michael to take Emma to her soccer game, sure that I was fine enough to stay home alone with Eli, who was then two and a half. He told me to call him if there was any problem, and I assured him I would be all right. I put on a Thomas the Tank Engine DVD, and Eli was hooked. I went to take a shower, convinced it would make me feel better.

Once out of the shower, I could not warm up. I was shivering so violently that I dove under the covers on our bed and stayed there for twenty minutes, trying desperately to find warmth. Eli wandered in to find me and saw me shaking; he thought it was a funny game Mommy was playing. I sure wish I’d felt like laughing. I followed him back into the den and put on another movie, then I lay on the couch. I was still freezing, and I knew I must have a fever. But I couldn’t remember for the life of me where I’d put the thermometer, and I was in no shape to go on a hunt. Fever after surgery—that can’t be a good thing.
But it’s been eleven days,
I told myself.
Surely this can’t be related to the gastric bypass!
I lay there fighting with myself, all the while trying to reach Michael on his cell phone, but I kept getting his voice mail. Desperate, I called my mom, who tried to reassure me from two hundred miles away that I was fine. In what seemed like forever, Michael finally came home and found me on the couch. He took one look at me and knew something was wrong. He found the thermometer: 101.5. I tried to argue that was a low-grade fever, but Michael wasn’t buying it. He made me place a call to the on-call doctor. As we waited for him to call back, I started throwing up, or dry heaving. It was not a pretty sight.

A doctor who did not do my surgery was on call that weekend. He asked me if I’d had a flu shot that year, and I told him
no, hoping desperately that that was what was wrong with me. He wondered aloud if he should admit me to the hospital so that he could do a CT scan to see what was going on internally. The thought made me panic, and I started playing up the flu idea. I told him that I felt achy and feverish but that I wasn’t having any abdominal pain, which was the truth. He told me I could have an abscess, and I was flabbergasted. “Eleven days after surgery?” I asked. He said it was rare, but possible. I refused to believe it—I just couldn’t. I asked if we could wait it out a little longer, to see if I felt better the next day, and he agreed. I vowed to take Tylenol to get the fever down, and I promised to call him back with an update.